


No Precious Time

by After_Baker_Street



Series: Back Together Again [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I'm Sorry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/After_Baker_Street/pseuds/After_Baker_Street





	No Precious Time

"I meant to get some things at the shops, but they were shut." I said, pulling my jumper over my head. I think I got the barest nod in response.

"This place is freezing! Christ, Sherlock, aren't you cold?" I would have left my jumper on but it was nearly soaked through. He waved his fingers in my direction, they were nearly blue. I reached for them, to warm them between my own. He shrugged me off. I rolled my eyes, content to let my life take place around him for the evening. I haven't the faintest where he went, mind palace or deep in some research.

Fell asleep watching telly. Woke up to a pain in my shoulder; I'm not as young as I once was. He was still at the table, face washed in pale blue light, crowned by a mad cap of dark curls. Even his beauty was precise - in one moment, overblown and luscious, the next distant and glacial.

I was going to put myself to bed, reached out to ruffle his curls, say goodnight.

"Don't touch me." He snarled. Just another night with Sherlock.

He was gone when I woke, and I didn't know where he was for three days. He finally answered my frantic texts and calls.

_Novosibirsk. Terribly busy. - SH_

I heard nothing until nearly another week passed. Leaving for work, I discovered him fast asleep on the sofa. I stoked the dying fire and wrapped the quilt around him.

That afternoon, I practically flew out of work when Sherlock texted that he needed me at a crime scene. By the time I arrived, the fishy accidental death was a homicide and the suspect was a confessed murderer.

In the taxi later back to Baker Street,  he finally put aside his phone. I reached for his hand. He withdrew, and started speaking. His voice was strangely formal, not hard or distant, just businesslike and brusque.

"John, I wish to convey how much your partnership has meant to me." I laughed, nervously.

"Aye, you're my partner in every sense of the word now, I suppose." He looked at me, caught my eye for just a moment. Then he shook his head, nearly an involuntary twitch. That's when I knew.

"I have appreciated these last months." He continued on, as though I hadn't spoken at all. "And I want you to know this changes nothing about our working relationship, but it is over." There, he faltered slightly. I felt breathless, my throat painfully dry.

"But -" I choked out, then coughed. "You can't. I love you." I saw regret flash in his eyes, I'm sure of it.

"And for that, I am grateful."

"What the FUCK is this?" He rearranged his features into something strange, like he was imitating a human being but wasn’t quite sure how. I knew that look. The one he used to manage emotionally unstable informants and suspects. A thin veneer of normalcy and concern.

"You're _grateful?_ You cold-hearted bastard."

We were at a stop, so I wrenched open the door and got out. I couldn't stand another moment of that, of him ending it like a fucking middle manager letting me go after an unsatisfactory performance review. I wanted to be gloriously furious, to slam the car door and step over the kerb, never looking back. Instead, I stepped awkwardly out of the car, and trying to throw the door closed I nearly tripped onto the sidewalk.

He didn't reach for me, he didn't even have the driver stop.

I walked until morning, walked until I was nearly shivering with cold. I eventually found my way back to the flat, because it was my home. It was where Sherlock lived.

At first I waited. I am nothing if not patient. Sherlock was kind to me, more considerate. He was careful. I waited for things to change, I tried to talk to him. He met every attempt at discussion with a firm refusal to engage. He was polite. He apologized "for any unpleasantness" between us.

He accepted nearly every case that came our way. We ran ourselves ragged all over London. And I waited. And I hoped.

Love became a sickness, and I swallowed it down. It ate away at me. I begged him, one late night, feeling heartsick and insecure. I left a crime scene, left work, stepped away from conversations because I could not stop the silent weeping that came upon me, often without warning.

I dreamt of the fall again. Over and over again I heard "Goodbye, John." in my dreams. My nightmares. I woke myself with my own screams.

I knew I was alive, but I felt myself dying. I wanted to shout at him; I was frustrated beyond all mortal ken. I was patient, I was sure the tides would once again change and bring him back to me.

I waited.

We worked together, as we had. I drove myself mad with hope. Over time, it turned into something painful and sweet lurking always at the back of my throat, words ready to be spoken, empty arms ready for an embrace.

After half a year I no longer recognized myself. In the mirror, my eyes were hollow and ringed with dark. I felt myself drifting, even in conversations with Sherlock. Rage and love and confusion tore at me.

One early morning after a long night, I found myself nodding off in my armchair. I woke to Sherlock standing above me, his face hidden in shadow. A pale hand reached for my face, brushing my fringe away from my eyes. I couldn't help myself, I shivered when he touched me. It had been so long.

Leaning close to me, he whispered.

"I am sorry, John." Though he spoke gently, there was violence and loss in his voice that cemented me in place, frozen with indecision.

He turned his face from mine, his profile barely visible in the early morning light. I swallowed, and remembered I could speak.

He was gone before I opened my mouth, his door shutting with a gentle click.

I thought it meant something had changed. I was wrong.

Those who knew all had advice, but that circle was small. Harry begged me to move to Cheswick with her. Will Holliday took me out for drinks, tried to call and check up on me.

Between cases, I was out for a pint with Lestrade, and Anderson had tagged along. Greg went to the gents and Anderson surprised me with a hug. It felt stiff, strange. When he let me go, he spoke fiercely.

"Don't let him destroy you, Watson."

I turned that bit of advice over and over again in my mind until it became as smooth as a river rock. I tried to take it to heart.

In many ways, things returned to how they had been before, though I could not stop the electric thrill that ran down my spine when he touched me. I could not stop the way his glance pierced my heart painfully. But I did start to guard myself against it. I tried to have faith in him, to hold on to the faith I once had.

It was late winter, more than two years after that awful cab ride. I woke to hear an exchange below, Sherlock's low rumble contrasting with the silvery chime of a woman's laughter. He was not always easy with women, so I hurried downstairs. I knew I was frightfully unprepared for a client, hadn't combed my hair, and my jeans were hanging off my hips. My feet were bare.

They both stood when I walked in. Sherlock's smile was warm, without a hint of ice when he introduced her, a client searching for her missing father.

"John, I'd like you to meet Mary Morstan."


End file.
